


Holiday

by Kalimyre



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Masturbation, Other, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kinkmeme--Martin has a good, long, teasingly delicious wank with the assistance of a sex toy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday

Martin stretched, hands in the small of his back.  He dug his thumbs into the muscle and gave a low grunt of pain.  His back twanged in weary protest as he bent down for the next box.  Three more to go.  He maneuvered the stairs carefully, watching where he placed his feet as he wedged the box around the narrow corner.

“You done yet?” the client called from the base of the stairs.  He was fiftyish, graying, and impatient, but not in so much of a hurry that he was willing to help.

“Yes, nearly,” Martin called back.  He leaned the box against the wall and propped it up with his knees, catching his breath. 

“I’ve got an appointment at five,” the man replied.  “I need you finished before then.”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said, keeping his tone polite.  “You told me.”

“It’s half four already.”

“Right, yes,” Martin replied.  He gritted his teeth and hefted the box again.  “I can read a clock,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Martin said.  “Only two boxes after this one.  I’ll be done in plenty of time.”

The client gave a discontented sort of burble and shuffled away.  Martin made it down the stairs to where his handcart was waiting and shoved the box onto it, propping the wheel in one place with his foot.  He rubbed his gloved hands together, shaking the ache out of his fingers, and scrubbed sweat off his forehead with one arm. 

“What’re you doing now?”  Mr. Murchison appeared in the hallway.  His arms were folded over his ample belly and he tapped one foot.  His eyes were a flat, coppery brown, like tarnished bronze, and his mouth disappeared in the shadow of a bushy moustache.  “Not paying you to stand about, am I?”

“I’ll get back to it right away,” Martin ground out.  He hurried back up the stairs, running numbers in his head.  Two more boxes, done by five, three hours work, that was thirty pounds.  Ten had to go for petrol or he’d never make it to the storage centre to drop off the boxes.  Five for food; he was out of milk and pasta and coffee.  The other fifteen in the rent fund.  Rent due in nine days and he was still a hundred pounds short, counting the fifteen being added today.

Flight tomorrow, layover in Dubai for two days, flight back on Thursday coming in late; those days were out.  So the soonest he could work another job would be Friday, leaving him four practical working days to earn the hundred pounds.  If he could average twenty five per day added to the rent fund he could swing it.

Martin tipped the next box up on one corner and got his hands under it, then lurched to his feet.  This time it was his shoulder that throbbed a warning; he ignored it.  He began the trek back down the stairs, still doing his sums.  Twenty five a day was ambitious, he’d have to have at least one job per day, possibly two.  It was winter; people didn’t like to move in winter. 

Maybe he could move today’s food budget into the rent fund instead.  There would be food on the flight tomorrow, he could skip for today.  His stomach gave a complaining twist at the thought, reminding him that he’d also skipped the day before.  Martin grimaced and turned sideways to negotiate the landing.  Maybe just a pot noodle could tide him over.  It was horrible and tasteless but at least it was cheap.  At this point he was willing to eat anything.

He set the box down on the cart, then turned and trotted back up the stairs before the client could say anything.  He was aware of that narrow stare prickling between his shoulder blades all the way up.  The last box was lighter, to his relief.  He pushed all three out the door and up to the back of his van.  Mr. Murchison followed and watched him load.

“Careful now,” he said.  “Some of that’s breakable.”

“I will be,” Martin promised.  He closed the back of the van and then turned.  “So, if you’d care to sign here please?  And that will be thirty pounds.”

“Hold on now,” Mr. Murchison replied.  “How do I know you’ve delivered it to the storage locker?  I’m not paying until the job is done.”

Martin didn’t falter.  He’d been down this particular road more than enough times.  “When I reach the storage facility, I will have the manager sign off on the delivery sheet.  I will send you a copy.  If you like, I will also have him call you to confirm receipt.  Our agreement was payment on pick-up.”  He held out his hand.

The client pursed his lips; the moustache twitched.  “Fine,” he grumbled.  He handed over three folded bills.  Martin made a point of counting them before putting them away. 

Then he climbed into the van, ready to put Mr. Murchison and his dull, suspicious stare behind him.  He drew his tattered jacket shut and shivered.  The sweat was cooling on his skin now and he wished he’d had the funds to get the van’s heating fixed.  One more thing for the list. 

*

After the delivery, a stop for petrol (he squeezed by with only seven pounds in the tank), and another stop at the shop for pot noodle, he arrived home at a quarter to seven.  Sunset came early in January and it was full dark, the sidewalks gritty with sand spread over the ice.  He crunched up the walk to the front door, sighing in relief at the wash of heat that greeted him.  At least that was working.

He shed his coat and scarf, then stripped out of the gloves, rubbing his hands together briskly.  His ears ached with cold and his toes felt half frozen in his worn work boots.  He took his packet of pot noodle into the kitchen.  Cady was there, sitting at the table with homework spread around her and a half-eaten plate of beef stroganoff at her elbow.  It smelled heavenly and Martin cast a wistful look in that direction before moving to the stove.

“All right, Martin?” she asked, glancing up at him.

“Yes, hello,” he replied.  “What are you working on?”

“PH soil balance calculations,” she said with a beleaguered look.  “God, I hate chemistry.  Who knew agriculture had so much bloody chemistry?”

Martin offered a sympathetic smile.  “You’ll get it, though.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” she replied.  “It’s not hard, really, just tedious.  Not as hard as maths.  If you hadn’t helped me out with them I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“No problem,” Martin said.  “I had to do quite a lot of maths when I was studying for the CPL.”

She nodded.  “Hey, d’you want the rest of this?  I made too much.”  She nudged the plate with the stroganoff toward him.

“Really?  You don’t mind?”

“Nah, go ahead,” she said.  “Call it a thank you for the tutoring.”

Martin grinned.  “Thank you.”  There was an old and familiar twinge of shame that from cadging food off a student ten years his junior living on borrowed money, but he was hungry enough to ignore it.  He settled at the table and dug in, closing his eyes in pleasure at the first bite.  Cady, in his opinion, was wasting her time as an agricultural student.  She was clearly born to be a chef. 

He made himself slow down, partly because he didn’t want her to see him wolfing his food like a starving person and partly because he wanted to savour it.  Still, it vanished alarmingly fast and he was scraping the fork over the plate to get the last bits of sauce when Rob came in.  He was, as always, dressed in trackies and a tee shirt and looked as if he’d just wandered off some sports field. 

“Hey,” Cady said, flashing him a bright smile.  Cady had the sort of hopeless crush on Rob that Martin could sympathise with, if not entirely understand.  Rob had a perpetually half-asleep look, slack and dazed, and Martin was fairly sure he spent at least half his time smoking something.     

“Yeah, hi,” Rob said.  He scratched his arm and blinked at the two of them.  “Martin, there was something I’m supposed to tell you.”

“Oh?  What was it?”

“Dunno,” Rob said.  “Something.”  He frowned.  He had thick hair, a lustrous dark brown, and several errant curls hung over his forehead.  Martin thought Cady might melt in her chair. 

“Well, let me know if it comes to you,” he said.  “Here, why don’t you sit by Cady and have a think.”

“Yeah, okay,” Rob said.  Cady shot Martin a grateful glance and he gave her a thumbs-up behind Rob’s back.

“By the way, do either of you know anyone who needs any moving work done?” Martin asked as he took his dishes to the sink.

“No, sorry,” Cady said.  “I’ll keep an eye out.”

Rob didn’t answer; Martin assumed that was a no.  “All right,” he said.  “I’ve got more fliers to put by the mailboxes.”

“Oh, that’s it,” Rob said.  “Mail, there was mail for you.  A package.”

Martin paused, drying his hands.  “There was?”

“Yeah, earlier.  It’s on the table in the hall.”

“Thanks,” Martin said, and hurried off, curious.  The package was smallish, wrapped in brown paper, and had an anonymous looking return address stating only ‘A&E products’ in London.  It was indeed addressed to him.  He tucked it under his arm; it was surprisingly heavy for its size.  He took it up the stairs to his room.

He left his shoes by the door and padded across the floor in stocking feet.  He perched on the edge of his futon and turned the box over in his hands a few times, examining it.  He shook it a little but it made no sound.  It felt well packed and solid.  Martin had a feel for packed boxes (he ought to, after all his time carrying them in and out of his van) and this felt like a professional job. 

He shrugged and peeled the tape off with his fingernails.  He lifted the lid and pawed the packing material aside.  Nestled among the bubble wrap was a clear plastic case, and inside the case there was an odd, hand-sized object.  It was white rubber, cylindrical with a gentle twisting curve, had two small buttons at one end and a raised, textured surface at the other.  He understood what he was looking at almost immediately but it took a minute to actually believe it.

“What on earth?” he muttered.  He set the box down and took a step away from it.  It remained on the futon, innocuous.  Well, it was hardly going to jump up and bite him, was it?  Still, Martin approached with caution.  He lifted the plastic case out of the box gingerly, with the tips of his fingers.  Then he flipped the box over, confirming that it was in fact his name and address on it. 

More packing material fell out when he turned the box, and a folded slip of paper fluttered to the futon.  He picked it up and spread it flat.  It was a receipt for online purchase; his name was on the shipping information but he certainly hadn’t spent sixty pounds online to purchase a… a… “A _sex toy,”_ Martin murmured.  A flush crept up his cheeks and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

He flipped the receipt over but the back was blank.  There was nothing else in the box, no indication of who had purchased and sent this to him.  And no instructions for how it was used.  Not that he was thinking of… well, all right, yes, he was thinking of using it.  How could he not?  And it couldn’t be that difficult to figure out; there were only two ends, one with the controls and the other which was obviously the business end. 

Martin sank back down on the futon and picked up the plastic case.  He turned it over and found the place where it opened.  When he pried it apart, the thing tumbled out into his lap; he gave a little jump.  Tucked in underneath it was a sachet of clear lubricant.  He pinched it between thumb and forefinger and considered it.  He was abruptly very glad he hadn’t opened the package in the kitchen.

He set the lube down and picked up the thing itself.  It was slim, flared at the base but the main part of it was no wider than a couple fingers.  The tip was pebbled with little bumps, and the body had rippling ridges formed into the rubber.  He trailed the pads of his fingers over the surface.  It was slick, even without lube; silicone, then.  When he pushed the button on the base the thing flared to life, not with a sharp buzzing vibration but more of a low, throaty rumble.  The feeling sparked from his fingertips and raced down his chest to pool in his groin.  Martin caught his breath and turned it off.

It wasn’t exactly that he consciously decided to try it.  He was halfway through washing the thing in his bathroom sink before he even realised he was going ahead with this.  It was more a combination of curiosity and sexual frustration and the need to forget for a while about his job and lack of money and the rent coming up and the cool contempt in Mr. Murchison’s stare.  It was, he thought, just a little holiday. 

All those things swirled stubbornly in the back of his head even as he shucked his clothes and walked naked back to the futon.  He closed his eyes, trying to find some quiet.  He could hear the faint sound of the telly from downstairs, and the clatter of dishes as someone did their washing up.  The air was warm, heat rising to the attic, and he caught a whiff of damp wood from under the eaves.  The cotton of his sheets was worn smooth, familiar and soft against his skin.  He took a deep breath and rested one hand flat on his belly, feeling it rise and fall.

Martin ran his hand over his chest, letting the fingertips brush lightly over the skin.  Up one side, bumping gently over each rib, across his collarbone and to the dip in the centre.  Then down his sternum to his abdomen, a circle round his navel, light enough to tickle and make him twitch.  Up again on the other side, brushing over his nipple this time, just barely grazing the edges of it.  Each touch left sparking trails of sensation on his skin.

He brought his fingers to his mouth, wetting the tips.  Then he ran them over his nipples, left and right and left again, little brushes back and forth over the tips.  The moisture evaporated on his skin, leaving spots of coolness, and his nipples hardened into peaks.  A tight curl of arousal flickered to life in his belly and sank in, coiling there. 

He touched his throat next, stroking down the sides, just barely touching.  Eyes still closed, he pictured someone holding him from behind, strong arms around his waist, firm mouth kissing a line from shoulder to ear.  Martin arched, exposing more of his neck, and wet his fingertips again, dabbing them in shivery imagined nibbles. 

Sprawling, his legs fell open of their own accord and he ran his spare hand up the inside of his thigh.  The touch caught at the fine hairs there, making them stand on end.  He rubbed little circles, higher and higher, until his knuckles brushed against his balls and he bit back a gasp.  He added a little scrape of his nails, thinking of a jaw rough with stubble catching the tender skin.  He was fully hard and his cock bobbed, slapping his stomach.  Martin rolled his hips, pushing up against empty air.

He bit his lip and squirmed, one hand splayed out on the curve of his hip, the other tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck.  When he finally touched his cock, his fingertips felt shockingly cold against the heated skin and he shuddered.  He kept the touch light, tracing a line from the base to the tip with just the pads of his fingers and then swirling in a circle around the crown.  He allowed himself three firm rubs, pushing the foreskin up and down in a slick glide, adding a twist at the tip.

“Oh, mmm,” he breathed.  “Oh that’s nice.”  It had been too long; he didn’t indulge often and he rarely took his time with it.  Too much to think about, too much stress; he couldn’t focus long enough to go slow.  Everything was still there, waiting for him, the rent and the empty cupboards and the worry over how long the van would hold up before it just broke down completely. 

“But it’s okay,” Martin muttered.  “I’m taking a holiday.”  He groped for the sachet of lube and ripped the corner with his teeth.  He squirted a generous dollop on his palm and rubbed his hands together, warming it.  He gave himself a firm squeeze and just stayed there, feeling the faint quiver of his pulse and the heat seeping into his fingers.  Then he stroked, slowly, rubbing his thumb at the sweet spot just below the head on every pass. 

His other hand, fingers still slippery with lube, went back to his nipples.  He circled them and touched in rapid flicks over the tips, imagining a tongue lapping at him.  He pinched gently ( _a nip, a tiny bite_ ) and tossed his head on the pillow.  He tightened the hand on his cock, twisting on the upstroke, going faster.  His breath began to catch in his throat, a low moan with every exhale, and heat raced up his chest.  He could feel pleasure drawing in and focusing at the tip, ready to unspool, building to one sharp point. 

He wrenched his hand away at the last second and gripped the blankets, gasping for breath.  His cock throbbed and ached.  He made a high, frustrated noise: “ _Hnnnnn_ oh…”

Then he picked up the toy.  Eyes still closed, he turned it over in his hands a couple times, getting the feel of it.  It was dense, heavy, and smooth.  The cool, firm weight of it made him think of a polished stone.  He set it down and applied more lube to his hand, slicking his fingers liberally.  This part was familiar, if rare; not his first time experimenting.  He stroked behind his balls, twitching at the warm, slippery contact.

He hitched his hips up, feet planted on the bed, knees apart.  He twisted and dipped a shoulder, muscles in his forearm working as his fingers kept busy below.  He eased his way back, dancing right up to the edge and then retreating, teasing around the rim.  He felt the flesh soften and flex under the pressure.  He dipped the tip of one finger in and wriggled it, squirming; he pictured a soft mouth there, tongue darting out to push and lick.  He groaned and jerked his hips, grinding down against his hand.

The finger slid in to the knuckle and he went still, letting out a breath.  He consciously relaxed, giving his body time to get used to it.  Then he pressed deeper, a little at a time, until he was all the way in.  He curled his finger, searching.  This part was trickier; hard to get the right angle, awkwardly reaching down.  Sometimes he couldn’t find the right spot at all, another reason he rarely did this.  He felt scattered sparks of pleasure as he got close and he made a low whining sound, lip bitten in concentration. 

He pulled out long enough for more lube, and then pressed back in with two fingers.  There was a slight burn this time but he breathed and waited until it subsided.  The pressure was interesting, teasing, but not as good as a hand on his cock.  He pictured someone else, lying with him, kissing his neck and murmuring soft endearments, one hand busy between his legs. 

He spread them further, inviting.  He felt all at once vulnerable and exposed and curled, leaning on his imaginary companion.  There would be a long, firm hug, he decided.  Something to soothe and calm him.  He sighed and rubbed his cheek on the pillow; that was his partner, stroking his cheekbone with the ball of one thumb, gentle and indulgent.

Martin curled his fingers and found it this time, the right spot.  He sucked in a hissed breath through his teeth and his eyelids fluttered.  His hips rolled forward on instinct and he pressed a little harder.  “Oh, oh,” he murmured, voice a low, guttural groan.  “Mmm, yes, there, oh please.”

He gave his cock a stroke with his other hand, rubbing his palm over the head.  He thrust twice more, fingertips stroking teasingly inside, just at the edge of where it felt best.  He couldn’t quite reach, not as hard as he wanted to, and he grinned in anticipation as he pulled out and reached for the toy.  He slicked it with the last of the lube and turned it on. 

It throbbed with that low, sullen rumble, tingling from his palm up to his shoulder.  He let the tip rest against his cock, just below the head, and had to bite his tongue to muffle a shout.  The vibration shivered through him, sending sparks across his skin, tightening his nipples into hard points and making his cock grow impossibly harder. 

“Oh god,” he murmured.  “Oh, mmm…”  He ran the tip back, feeling the textured bumps glide over his balls on a layer of lube.  They drew up, tight and heavy against the base of his cock.  He rubbed it behind them, over the perineum, and twisted.  It was almost too much; he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull it away or push harder. 

Further, then, further back, until he pressed it at his entrance and just let it rest there, throbbing and shooting flashes of sensation.  He sank it in very slowly, the muscle stretching over the slim, slippery device.  He felt every inch, every ridge and ripple of the thing.  His toes curled and his back arched before he even got it all the way in. 

The curve of it angled the tip up toward his belly as he pushed it further, and he understood why it was shaped that way when it brushed his prostate.  He yelped and clapped a hand over his mouth, biting the edge of his palm.  He whimpered, licking his own hand, tasting lube and salt.  Slowly, very slowly, he pressed in again. 

This time the textured, firm tip rested right there, right _there,_ vibrations shuddering up through him.  They radiated from a point low in his abdomen out to the tip of his cock, spiraling down his legs and drawing the skin of his thighs into gooseflesh.  He could feel it in the palms of his hands and all up his chest in a hot rush.

“Hnnnnn oh oh oh,” he babbled, twisting on the bed.  Sweat sprang out on his chest and forehead; he felt a trickle of it slide down from his temple and into his hair.  One last nudge and the toy was fully seated, rumbling and pulsing inside, the base tucked up behind his balls.  He took his hand off it and clutched the sheets.  Every squirm and shiver seemed to shift it; every tiny move echoed through him.

He mouthed and nibbled at his hand, running the fingers over his bottom lip.  He panted for breath; his vision blurred and grew hazy at the edges.  His hips started a slow, steady rocking, arching up and lifting off then bed, then grinding back down and pressing the thing deeper.  Any minute now he was going to touch himself—any minute, he had to, he wanted to so very badly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop that hypnotic rocking.

He ran his knuckles down the centre of his chest, slippery with sweat and lube, and circled his nipples.  He gave a gentle pinch and twist between thumb and forefinger (nibbling again) and then soft brushes (licking now, oh yes).  He reached down and felt around the base, felt where the muscle stretched around it.  He clenched, tensing his abdominal muscles.  His cock twitched and his body seemed to draw the toy in, sucking it further. 

Martin cupped his balls, heavy in his palm.  He rolled them with soft, delicate touches.  His feet pedaled against the bed, tugging and catching on the sheets, as he arched.  His cock ached fiercely but it was sweet, a deep and sullen pleasure, glowing like a banked fire.  He curled a hand around the base and swept it up to the tip in one long, smooth motion.  He moaned in relief at the contact.

He dabbed the tip of his forefinger at the slit in darting little touches (a tongue, lapping, teasing him) and then ran his thumb in a circle around the foreskin.  Then a long pull, his hand gloriously tight and slick, squeezing the tip and sliding down to the base.  Martin turned his head to the side and mouthed at his shoulder, licking the skin, scraping with his teeth.  Both hands now, weaving over each other, one long endless stroke.

Every time he pushed up into his hands the toy shifted, pressing in a different way, and then he sank back down and ground himself against it and oh, oh yes.  Right there.  “Ah,” Martin panted, mouth dry, hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty curls.  “Ah, ah, oh god, oh please…”

Faster, his hand moving with a fluid rhythm on his cock, the other up at his chest again, touching and caressing.  The room was full of the wet sound of skin on skin and the thrum of the toy, a sound more felt than heard, like the buzz of power lines.  It was everywhere now, shaking and tingling over his body, radiating from the bottoms of his feet all the way to his scalp.

Rub and tease at the tip, wet touches with the pads of his fingers, a slow, luscious circle of his thumb over that one perfect spot just below the head.  Both hands, layered fists he could thrust into, wrapping him up root to tip and then back down to press, press against the bed, push just a little harder…

“Nnnnng uh, uh,” Martin mumbled.  He was breathing so fast that black flickers swarmed in around his vision but it didn’t matter, none of it mattered, it felt so _good._ He licked his lips and thrashed, head lolling back and forth, body a long, taut line, every muscle quivering.  A little more, just a _little more_ and he could feel it, dancing within reach.

He kept one hand on his cock, palming the head, squeezing and rubbing up and down in tight, sinuous little strokes.  With the other, he pressed the base of the toy, angling it and twisting so the tip on the inside wriggled back and forth.  He squeezed his eyes shut so tight he saw dazzling zigzags of light behind his eyelids.  At the last second he remembered to turn and muffle his cries against his shoulder, a shout turning into a garbled moan.

Coming was like being turned inside out, the pleasure welling up in a tidal wave and knocking him flat.  He could feel all his muscles clenching around the toy, driving it even harder against that one brilliant point of sensation.  It kept going even after he could barely stand to touch his cock with a feather light graze, oversensitive and wrung out.  The deep rumble of the toy coaxed more ripples of feeling, languid aftershocks rolling through him.

He fumbled at the base with numb, clumsy fingers, and finally pulled it out.  It buzzed and trembled on the blanket until he managed to turn it off.  Then he flopped back, arms spread wide, dazed.  He was conscious of the thump of his heart, pounding in his chest and slowly returning to a more normal speed.  He could feel the sticky spatter of come drying on his skin but couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.  His head was empty; wonderfully, peacefully quiet.   

Martin drifted, dozing.  He curled on one side and tugged the blanket up around him.  The warmth was welcome, as was the feeling of being wrapped up.  He imagined it was someone else, cuddling up, holding him close.  Perhaps pressing a sleepy kiss to the nape of his neck and murmuring words of affection in his ear. 

He squeezed the blankets to his chest, snuggling into them, and fell asleep with a faint smile on his face.


End file.
